Watch Her Watch
by kerlin
Summary: Nick's a long way from home and Sara's got some habits that aren't worth breaking.


Nick had always been too much of a country boy at heart to appreciate the fact that Las Vegas made its own stars, and proudly so, in the neon of its billboards, the dozens of headlights, the sparkles of its showgirls. That was more Warrick and Catherine's thing, he figured. Who knew what Grissom thought about anything. 

He'd never been quite sure where to fit Sara into that conception, but now he had her figured for a country girl too. Somehow she looked completely natural sitting on the back gate of the truck, legs kicking aimlessly. Her right arm was slung over the side of the truck bed, and her head lolled backward to look up at the fast-fading stars.

"We never get to see them, working all night," he said, his breath pluming in the chill of a desert night. Slowly, he hitched backwards a bit more, until the edge of the gate was tucked in behind his knees. Leveraging himself with no small amount of tension on his stomach muscles, he linked his hands behind his head and stared upward.

There weren't too many clouds, and the air was crisp and dry in a way that promised the day would be a scorcher. Working the night shift, spending the hottest part of every day behind pulled curtains, sleeping to the hum of an air conditioner, did have its advantages when living in Las Vegas.

"Some of them are already dead anyway," Sara said, and as he watched, rolled her head back forward to look out across the sparse vegetation and sun-baked dust. Far away on the horizon, the first band of deep purple was beginning to ease its way upward, precursor to a stunning sunrise.

Nick had no doubt that Sara Sidle, Ivy League physics major, could tell him the composition and relative position of each one of the stars he was seeing in terms he'd never quite understand. So he just rolled his back to fit the nubs of his spine more comfortably into the ribbing of the truck bed, and began to track the handle of the Little Dipper toward the North Star.

The click of the lighter and the sudden burst of flame had him tilting his head toward her, and the tip of the cigarette glowed and cast its feeble light back against her face. Her first drag was long and deep, tinged with something like desperation, and she blew the smoke out just as efficiently. There was nothing of enjoyment in the rote movements.

"That's a bad habit, Sar," he chided her, and realized at the last second that he sounded like an overprotective older brother.

"I've got lots of 'em," she said back, voice as brittle as her movements as she snatched the cigarette away from her lips to blow out a second lungful of smoke. Her third drag was at least a bit slower, and through its accompanying cloud of smoke he watched the horizon as pinks and peaches began to appear and the stars faded, leaving only a handful of bright spots - planets and satellites, and a red-eye flight coming in to McCarran.

Nick sat back up then, looping his left arm around the side of the truck bed in a mirror of Sara's posture. Neither spoke - Sara's words had left the air a bit too clear. He knew exactly what he ought to say to her, but he knew at the same time that any attempt to voice the obvious would ruin any semblance of peace they'd been able to achieve between themselves.

So he reached out and rested his hand on her left shoulder, thumb grazing the bare skin of her upper arm. Her skin was chilled, even against the ever-increasing warmth of the open desert, and he resisted the urge to drag her over to him and chafe at her arms until circulation was running properly again. The gesture would be extremely unwelcome. More than she wanted, less than he wanted.

As it was, she turned toward him, tangles of curls brushing against his knuckles, and his grip tightened almost imperceptibly. He'd tell her, if she asked, that her hair had tickled.

"You don't have any bad habits, do you, Nick." There was nothing in her voice of question.

He'd told Warrick and Catherine that he was _dependable_ in high school, four years of designated driving and hand-holding and cold showers.

Nick dropped his hand down to the cool, smooth plastic of the truck gate and looked back out at the sunrise. "You'd be surprised."


End file.
